The Pretender
by Defreliza
Summary: Moriarty is back, ready to cause more chaos. Don't get me wrong, he's dead, but someone is filling in for him. A pretender, if you will. Events take place starting the day after TAB. Eventual Johnlock... maybe?
1. Chapter 1: Speak of the Devil

**Hello my friends! It's been a while.**

 **This story has taken quite a long time for me to write, partially because I'm particularly horrible at having inspiration, and partially because I'm just really lazy.**

 **I've already written five chapters, four of which I need to go back and edit. If you don't hear from me for a while, I apologize. I will not be keeping to an updating schedule, although expect one of the prewritten five chapters to be out once every three to four days. After all five have been posted, I'll try my best to provide quality writing as soon as possible.**

 **A reminder to harsh reviewers: I am still working on my writing so please be gentle.**

 **One more thing to note: I am from America, so I may not know of some of the small things that British people do when it comes to writing. Some people like to "britpick" their writing, which I kind of find ridiculous (not trying to offend anyone), but I would still like to know when there is something that I could change, so please tell me!**

 **One last thing: As always, I do not own any of the characters in this story. They all rightfully belong to the creators of BBC Sherlock.**

 **Enjoy!**

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 **CHAPTER 1**

 **Speak of the Devil**

 **John**

Golden rays of sunlight filter through the translucent curtains, and I'm lying on the bed, watching a sleeping Mary snore. Her short, wavy blonde bob is disheveled from a well-deserved long night's rest. Yesterday had been a difficult day for both of us. I grin at her, admiring her sleeping form.

I'm still surprised as to how I managed to sleep this late, what with Moriarty back to torment us from the afterlife.

I'm too calm. I shouldn't be. Right now, I should be groggily nursing some tea at Baker Street, watching Sherlock pace. He needs someone with him right now. Why am I not there?

The answer comes to me easily: Mary. Mary promised me that he was in good hands, with Mycroft. I knew that wasn't completely true, but I didn't push the issue any further. There were bags under Mary's eyes last night. She walked like she was a zombie, and she stared into space more often than not. I could tell that both mental and physical tiredness were weighing down on her heavily, and the least I could do was allow her to take me home and go straight to bed.

She's stirring now, shifting in bed and yawning, stretching her arms high above her head. She turns to face me, squinting into the bright sunlight. She produces a small smile from her tired face, and says a quiet "Morning, love."

I smile back, my head propped up on my elbow. "Morning. How did you sleep?"

"Well," She murmurs, and glances at the clock, which glares the numbers 9:42 in bright red. She grimaces and says, "Way too well, actually."

My smile broadens. A surprising calmness has taken hold of me. "You're the one who told me not to worry about Sherlock, so I didn't set the alarm," I say proudly, laying my head back down on the pillow and relishing in the serenity of the moment.

A small laugh escapes Mary. "Good boy."

Blissful silence encases the room for a few minutes. I wish this moment would last forever. Us, just lying here, absolutely still except for the rise and fall of our chests. Mary breaks the silence, but most certainly not the peace.

"Is this what it will be like, everyday, for us?" Mary asks hopefully, turning her head towards me. "No chaos, no disturbances, just peace?"

"God, I hope so," I say with a laugh. I reach my hand over to the back of hers and draw lazy circles on her skin with my thumb. "Do you remember that little thing you used to do to help calm me down when Sherlock was gone?"

"Yes," replies Mary, slight confusion tinting her voice. "Why?"

"Can you do it now? I'm not stressed, but I miss it," I tell her.

"Of course."

I lie down once again on my back and close my eyes, waiting for her to begin.

"One day, when we have enough money, we'll buy a big house together, bigger than this one. It will be large, but not large enough to feel empty. We'll always have a guest room to spare for a friend in need. Sometimes, when the weather is bad, we'll curl up by the fire with some hot tea and tell stories… stories of adventure, or fantasy, or mystery…" she pauses, reaches a hand over her stomach, and I can hear the smile in her voice when she says, "and then one day, we'll start a family there, and tell them stories around the fire too."

I sigh, content. "I would absolutely love that."

Mary hugs me. "I would too, but right now you'd really ought to get going."

"Good point."

 **Sherlock**

I didn't sleep. I never do; sleep is boring. This time, however, was different. I didn't sleep not because I thought it was tedious, but because I couldn't.

I've already proven that Moriarty is gone. But what I said about knowing what he's going to do next?

I lied.

I haven't the faintest idea what he's planning.

Whatever it is, it will definitely not be good.

I could have used the sleep. Drug overdoses do tend to leave me a bit worn out. But I needed the time to search my mind palace for any indication as to what he will do. Perhaps I missed a hidden message during our first meeting? Maybe our second encounter? I despise being in the dark like this, but I'm going to have to wait for him to make a move.

I rub my tired eyes and yawn from my chair in the sitting room. When was the last time I was this exhausted? The night after the swimming pool incident. I can remember that entire day with clarity that even I do not usually have. It was one of my most exhilarating cases, but also one of the scariest nights of my life, because…

 _No one_ touches _my_ John.

Footsteps and then a loud creak on the stairs alert me that someone is coming. _Ah, speak of the devil._

"Sherlock, you'd really ought to fix that creaky stair."

I keep my eyes closed and speak. "That is an absolutely terrible idea."

"What?"

"Say I don't hear someone coming up the stairs, someone potentially dangerous. The creaky stair could be the difference between life and death," I say, impatience seeping into my voice. While I'm glad that John is here, I don't have time for this small talk.

John closes the door, walks over to his chair, and settles cozily in, staring at the ceiling. Although my eyes are closed, I can practically see him look back at me, eyebrows knit, just before he asks the inevitable question―

"Where's Mycroft?"

There's no hope in trying to focus now, so I open my eyes. I might as well converse with John, then.

"Not here."

"So you've been here, alone, since last night?!" I can hear worry and borderline anger in his voice and etched on his face.

I turn away from him in my chair and say, "I haven't been _here_. I've been in my mind palace―"

"Mary told me that you would be with Mycroft! That you would be safe! But look at you… the bags under your eyes have bags of their own…" John sounds tired himself, even though he's obviously gotten a full night's rest. "Why would Mary lie?"

That was a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway.

"She didn't. Mycroft was here for about twenty minutes last night, but we had a disagreement as to whether or not I should be taken to the hospital because of my overdose… let's just say Mrs. Hudson is rather angry at the both of us at the moment," I can't help but grin at my last comment. John, to no one's surprise, does the exact opposite and frown.

"You need to sleep," John says.

I scowl. "Too boring."

"Yes, I know, you've said it befo―"

RIIING!

RIIING!

RIIING!

As soon as my mobile starts ringing, a sort of dread fills my mind, along with a considerable amount of excitement. My mobile was set to buzz, not ring. So what kind of code could override my settings to make it ring that loud, old-timey rotary dial phone ring?

Ah, of course. I should have known. Who else would it be?

 **Mary**

I must be more tired than I had previously assumed, because I fall back to sleep right after John closed the front door, headed for Sherlock's. My short-lived dream is strange, a swirling cocktail of colors, words, and emotions.

Short-lived, I say, because not ten minutes later I'm jolted out of my sleep by grabbing hands.

All over, they hit, jab, and push me until I'm so disoriented that I can't even think. I hear something along the lines of "get a move on" as a sack is forced over my head. My scream is muffled, but loud enough for them to yell "quiet!" and whack me in the head. My hands are restrained with a sort of zip tie, and my legs are bound around the ankles by duct tape. The hands lift me haphazardly as I writhe in their grip. They accidentally walk me into the doorframe as they carry me out of the room, and I'm out like a light.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2: Too Recognizable

**Chapter 2 has begun! Enjoy!**

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 **CHAPTER 2**

 **Too Recognizable**

 **[John]**

I'm frozen where I sit. Internally, I am a cacophony of fear and anger. They're in the middle of a shouting match, one trying to overcome the other to conquer my mind. Externally, I look mildly confused, trying to fool a man who can never be fooled into thinking I don't know what's happening.

I'd known it the minute his face had turned to stone, his amused expression gone with the wind. I'd known it the minute I saw his hands freeze mid-gesture. I'd known it the minute Sherlock stopped breathing.

It's Moriarty.

"John, answer it."

I don't move an inch. I'm too terrified. The mobile keeps ringing.

"Answer, or so help me, I will tape it to your ear!" Sherlock whisper-yells through gritted teeth. I look up at his face, and upon finding impatience written on it, I promptly get out of my chair, pick up the mobile, and put it on speakerphone.

"Hello?" I say, heart hammering in my chest.

A surprisingly familiar and stuttering voice manages to squeak out a "h-hello".

This voice is almost too recognizable, but I can't quite pin a name on it. _How_ do I know that voice?

Sherlock answers the question for me. "Mike Stamford."

The man who introduced me to Sherlock, that fateful day. He's in danger.

 **[Sherlock]**

We've got twelve hours. Twelve hours until Mike Stamford lights up like a candle. No time for similes, Sherlock, get to the point! I shouldn't be as anxious as I am; I figured out how that Vermeer painting was a fake in ten seconds. But this is different. Moriarty (or whoever's pretending to be him) is repeating the case that John so lovingly calls "The Great Game", but in four very special ways, he isn't.

Way #1: We are not dealing with the real Moriarty. This is an imposter, a pretender. Moriarty is most definitely dead. I have proved that over and over again to myself.

Way #2: Moriarty's pretender told Mike to call _my_ mobile. He'd originally used the fake pink phone that was supposed to look like the phone from my first case with John. He either doesn't have the resources to get the phone, or is trying to send the message that he's more familiar with John and me than Moriarty was.

Way #3: There are no pips. He did send me a photo, but _after_ the call, not before, like the Moriarty of old. But there were no pips, leading me to believe that the imposter is separating himself from Moriarty. (Or telling us that this isn't a threat, as pips usually are, but that's the least likely possibility.)

Way #4: He's targeting someone we know. Mike is stuck somewhere in the labyrinth that is London, wrapped in semtex. He's sending the message that he knows me. He doesn't know me personally, but is familiar with me.

So, my deduction is as follows: Someone who is acquainted with me (or John) is trying to recreate Moriarty's first encounter with us, but believes that they can do better, or that Moriarty missed something important, even though they are obviously much less than the criminal mastermind that he was. They couldn't do something original? They had to steal from Moriarty's past? Other than that, they are well-educated, smart but not worthy of the title of "genius". It's possible that they worked for Moriarty.

I say that the imposter may be acquainted with John as well, because we both know Mike, and to know me practically means to know John. Most importantly, I deduce that the imposter knows John, or both of us, because of the picture I'd been sent after the missing pips.

It was a picture of the exterior of John's flat.

 **[John]**

Sherlock and I hail a cab and I scramble inside, Sherlock following with less haste than he should have. My voice is rushed and distressed when I tell the cabbie where we need to be, adding "and fast" to the end. Sherlock notices my anxiety indifferently before turning away to stare out the window to his right as London flies by. Tucking himself away in his mind palace, no doubt. I could use his support, and feel somewhat betrayed in his lack of interest. My life could very well be going to hell, in case Sherlock hadn't noticed.

When I first saw the picture, my first and only thought was of Mary's safety. My hands started shaking the second after I called her and got sent to her voicemail after it rang out. I tried to think rationally, if only for her sake. She might still be sleeping. She might be at lunch with a friend and didn't want to be disturbed, so her mobile's off.

Or she might be dead.

I can't stop myself from thinking of the possibility, and once it's there, I'm gripping the edge of the cab's seat like my life depends on it, trying desperately not to scream. I can't decide if the quiet whimper that comes out of my mouth instead is one of fear, anguish, or anger at myself for letting this happen. Mary might be dead because I left.

A twisted part of me blames Sherlock for all of this, but I try to silence that part and tell it that Sherlock wouldn't have known. The twisted part retorts, _Sherlock had said that he knew what Moriarty was going to do next, after his drug overdose. So why, then, had Sherlock allowed this to happen? Why hadn't he warned Mary and me that this would happen?_

Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't know for sure that… that Mary's gone. All I know is that they took a picture of our flat and sent it to Sherlock after the call. Yes, that's all I know. Maybe they're just trying to give us a little scare and will send us a new photo later tonight, with someone else's flat in it, with someone else's wife inside. Who knows?

Now that I'm the tiniest bit calmer, my hands relinquish their tight hold on the cab's seat. I take some deep breaths, and my rapid pulse starts to slow bit by bit. Mary's fine. I'm fine. Everything's okay. No one's hurt.

What worsens my fear yet again is Sherlock. Sherlock says nothing on the way there. His face says it all for him: he expects the worse.

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 **Thanks for reading and review if possible!**


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